Alla Prima
by silentsister
Summary: Their fights were generally spectacular...as if by quarreling over the small things they could avoid the elephants in the room. [PWP, Oneshot]


**Disclaimer:** Don't own anything, not making any money.

**A/N: **I've been swamped with school (and should really be working right now!), but felt the need to write a nice little angsty PWP to relax, especially after finding some really great songs that fit this ship perfectly. I'm skittish about posting any kind of lyrics here considering stance on songfics, but I'll post a version with lyrics at the Lisa/Jackson Yahoo! group. Enjoy.

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He loved it when she fought him tooth and nail, but he loved it even more when she was pliant and willing, his for the taking.

Their fights were generally spectacular – his temper burned hot and fast, her eyes and voice turned cold as ice – and usually over the most trivial of inconveniences, as if by quarreling over the small things they could avoid the elephants in the room. His profession. Her rape. Things they never talked about, but that came between them all the same.

Invariably, their rows dissolved into rough, needy sex. He demanded her complete surrender and she clung to him for dear life, but only after offering her token resistance. It was all part of the ritual, part of the healing, part of the halfhearted attempt to save face. Drunk on lust and power, he marked her with his teeth – he knew it embarrassed her, having to cover up the patches of bruised skin the morning after, but in the dark of the night, she cried out in ecstasy when he did it, so he kept on taking long pulls on her flesh as if he could savor the taste of her forever.

For her part, her pale, slender fingers fluttered over his naked skin to send delicious shivers down his spine, her fingertips lighting like butterflies here and there. She was a tease, and it was enough to drive him mad with sensation, but for the powerful accompaniment of her lips on his that tempered the tentative touches. The longer they went on, the bolder she became and the more she touched him, her palms flat against his chest, smoothing over his shoulders and down his arms, exploring the contours of his muscles. When she was feeling particularly vindictive, she dug her nails into him and left marks of her own, little red crescents that dotted his back and upper arms like birds on a seashore. He was never embarrassed by it.

On the occasions that they made it to the bed, Jackson reveled in the sight of her auburn curls splayed across the white of the sheets; his fascination with her hair bordered on obssession, and he couldn't seem to keep his hands out of it. Sometimes his touch was gentle, twining through the strands, twisting certain ringlets around his index finger, massaging her scalp. And sometimes he was rough, gripping and pulling her head back to give him unfettered access to the delicate skin of her neck, or holding her steady while his eyes bored into hers. No one ever won those staring contests – he had too much patience and she too much nerve. So he buried his face in her tresses and let them glide over his lips and fill his nose with her fragrance – roses and lavender. Those little old-fashioned concessions of hers always made him smile.

They were both vocal during their passionate sessions – he growled low in his throat when she defied him, and she moaned her encouragement when he responded with renewed enthusiasm. He memorized not only her body, but her every exhalation, the quickening of her breath when he trailed his fingers down the inside of her thigh, the small groan of pure pleasure she always gave when he cupped her breast and ran his thumb over her nipple. He manipulated her mercilessly to elicit his favorite noises, but she hardly cared. It was a good thing; she knew that even if she wanted out, he'd never let her go. In a way, his need was greater than hers – she'd become his touchstone, his access to what was still good and human inside. She'd seen his scars a thousand times now, the ones that stretched back to an abusive childhood along with the ones she'd given him, and he'd seen hers, so they were even. Equals. He loved her for it, for just knowing.

And she loved him for not caring. He wanted her despite her imperfections, and he wasn't shy about the scar she tried so hard to forget; on the contrary, he lavished attention on it, curious to see the damage done to another person and how it compared to his own. To him, it was a challenge – she'd been broken, and he needed to put her back together, motivated by the selfish desire to have her all to himself, all of her, all the time, and he couldn't have that if she didn't give up all of her secrets and fears to him. So he coaxed her out of her shell with his lips and his hands and his eyes, those clear blue eyes that saw through all of her defenses and laid her bare. He always saw too much, but she didn't try to hide anymore.

"I need you," Jackson whispered against the curve of her shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin, his tongue soothing the irritated patch left behind. The rasp in his voice promised a whole host of new pleasures if she would just have him.

Lisa smiled up at the ceiling. He always gave her a choice, one way or another, a concession to the demons she continued to vanquish in fits and starts, some of them his own creations. She sought his face with her left hand; found it, traced the line of his jaw, drew him back up until his face hovered over hers. The moment stretched on too long and they faltered – too many unspoken emotions threatened to spill out, and neither was ready to actually talk to the other. They left the potentially dangerous thoughts and feelings unspoken, both practiced in denial, relying instead on subtle nuances of emotion and expression, of action and implication.

So she slid a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to meet his lips with hers – soft at first, tender and wistful and disastrous, but blossoming into something more aggressive until she sank her teeth into his bottom lip and tasted blood on her tongue. He hissed in pain, pulled away and shifted, swinging a leg over to straddle her, pushing down on her, trapping her beneath his weight. It was easier this way, easier to choose anger and hurt, to spike their pleasure with pain. It was all they knew.

Pinioning her wrists above her head with one hand, he kneaded the crook of her neck with the other, hard fingers struggling for purchase. She whimpered when he ground his hips against hers, the fabric between them doing little to mute the heat of their bodies. He smirked from his vantage point and drank in the sight of her under him, her wild curls and bare breasts, her darkened eyes and bloodstained lips. It was his favorite sight, her at his mercy, both strong and vulnerable at the same time, and it never failed to send a delicious shiver of anticipation racing along his nerve endings. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and cradled her cheek in his palm, brushing his thumb over her lips. She pulled against the hand that encircled her wrists, wiggled and squirmed, but he was implacable, and she was trapped.

"Hurry up," she said, impatient with his langour, trying to goad him into further action, but it pleased him to prolong their torment by kissing her again, on the corner of her mouth, the tip of his tongue exploring, probing for more malice. When he found none, he released her arms and moved to hook his thumbs into the waistband of her skirt, which was impeding their progress. Likewise, she fumbled with his belt buckle and then the zipper of his pants. The clothes had to come off – neither would tolerate artifice at this point, and it was their way of being utterly honest without having to form the words.

Clothing shed, it was pure skin on skin at last, full body contact that burned them both alive, flames licking higher with every touch and taste. He was impatient now and she was tired of playing games, and then he was in her and he breathed her name out, a whispered prayer. It was almost too much.

She shifted just the right way, writhed under him and that was it - he moved faster and she tensed up, both swept away by the heat and the light and the sheer pleasure until she screamed out his name against his mouth and he lost control.

Later, when the shivering pleasure had run its course and silence reigned again, he stroked her arm and she rested her forehead on his chest, neither willing or able to abandon the warm bed and soft caresses that obscured the memory of their earlier fight. In the morning, she would leave him for the real world, for her life as a longsuffering hotel manager, a dutiful daughter, a sympathetic friend, and he would be left to his own dark travails, the orders he carried out with a heart of stone. There would be a brief kiss, a promise to return, and then they would go their seperate ways for another day. He didn't doubt her fidelity in the least – he knew, in that arrogant, self-assured, and completely correct way of his that she thought only of him. She didn't doubt him either, for his obssession with her was as plain as day.

Someday, perhaps, they would finally sit down and talk about what had brought them to that place and he would make sacrifices for her and she for him, and they would somehow live happily ever after, or at least ride off into the sunset.

But not tonight. Tonight, she was in his arms and that was enough.


End file.
